Unforgiven

cannot-mend

Suicide is looking like a really good option again.  I’d rather die than go back to work and be around people that hate me.  The closer it gets to Tuesday, the more insane this emotional roller coaster becomes.  I’ll be angry one minute and want to break down crying the next.

The therapist had asked if I had attempted to contact these people lately and suggested that maybe things would be better if I tried to.  I laughed.  I HAD contacted them.  Both before and after attempting suicide.  Nothing.  Why the fuck would that have changed now?  It’s not going to change.  They hate me.  They’d rather see me dead than talk to me.  Maybe that’s all that’s keeping me here for now.  I don’t want to make them happy by offing myself.

I’m just so angry and hurt and I can’t seem to make sense of anything.  Quoting trite little sayings about how I should “forgive myself” or “forgive them” doesn’t do fuck all.  Everyone always leave out the “how?” with those things.  Forgive myself?  Great.  HOW DO I DO THAT?!  Forgive them?  For what?  And how?  I almost envy people that choose to believe in a god because they think that shoving off personal responsibility makes things better.

See?  I don’t even have IMAGINARY friends, much less real-life friends.  I’m THAT fucking horrible.  I could slit my fucking wrists and write an apology to them in my own blood and they still wouldn’t believe that I’m truly sorry for everything.  I could apologize with my dying breath and they wouldn’t say a word.

I’m terrified to be around this person at work.  It makes it particularly horrible when I remember that, more than any other person in the world, I felt safe around him.  Like nothing could hurt me.  Somehow, the way he explained how to deal with things I had trouble dealing with got through to me and I understood it better.  And it’s not that I didn’t feel “safe” around everyone else, I just felt more safe around him.  I didn’t trust many people.  I would have trusted him with not only my life, but with the life of my son.  He hates me now.  That’s on me.  I know that.  Now I have to go back to daily, hours long reminders of it.

I’m sure every person these people live with either hate me of their own volition or they’re under orders to hate me.  So, I guess that’s one thing we all have in common.  We all hate me.  At least they don’t have to BE me.  I hate myself more than they ever could.

I’m vacillating between wanting to try to just walk into work, head held high, and pretend I don’t notice anyone or anything or walking in quietly, trying to blend into the walls, and not looking at anyone.  I used to wonder how people could become dependent on drugs or alcohol because it just didn’t make sense to me that anyone would do harm to themselves to avoid feeling things.  I get it now.  I couldn’t afford a habit so that’s not an actual issue but I do have plenty of other ways to inflict self-harm that don’t involve spending money.  I’m sure there are ways I haven’t discovered, too.  At this point, why fucking bother to try actually living?  What’s the point?  Fuck it all.

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